


Thinking of escape

by YawningOverTheTapestries



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Late at Night, Post Reichenbach, Stand Alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YawningOverTheTapestries/pseuds/YawningOverTheTapestries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the night falls over London, and the set of events that led him here, Sherlock boards a train to head off the radar, leaving only so much behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thinking of escape

**Author's Note:**

> Still having those Reichenbach blues. I spent a few days listening to emotional music, then wrote this little thing in the hope I'd feel better.  
> I'm no hard-core Sherlockian, but The Fall did haunt me, and probably will do for a long time.

He was a fair distance out of the city, but even here, the sky still looked the same. Black and glowing and almost velveteen, completely starless. It enhanced the silent emptiness of Osterley station, which was lit with a handful of street lamps, standing tall like sentinels, and the sickly orange light they gave off crashed into shadows and gave the place a sinister, cold feel.

Half-hidden in the darkness, Sherlock stared flatly across the platform, the unreflecting concrete and weathered posters, scattered with litter and newspapers, all of it seeming to shift in and out of focus; a world wearing thin as the mysteries unravelled and the dust began to settle.

_The place hasn't been swept yet. I've still got some time._

 

 

Sherlock's footsteps punctuated the eerie quiet, and his reflection in the clear wall of the rain shelter almost caught him by surprise. Glowering silently at the crude mirror, what he saw was what just might pass for a ghost - that felt cruelly ironic. _The world thinks I'm dead._

That, of course, was all in Sherlock's mind, and had been, unchanging, for several days. The horrific, definitive showdown. He and Jim Moriarty, on the roof of St Bart's to shake hands with their fate.

Their encounter, and events that led up to it, replaying endlessly in Sherlock's memory like a bad dream, he almost couldn't bear looking at his reflection; that simple, yet profound phrase so clear and fresh. _You're not ordinary. You're me._

The duel they'd been fighting, for what felt like ages and ages, to basically try to outsmart each other. Their cunning and smartness, and thirst to rid themselves of boredom, could have made them both mirror images of each other.

But then there was the horrifying doubt Jim had planted in so many heads, the anarchic whirl round London's most prized and well-protected landmarks, all the events to leave everyone confused and terrified and whispering rumours. All the trickery and dangerous toying with fate, not to mention killing several innocent people, leading up to a few minutes where Jim and Sherlock, alone together, could try one more time to make the other crack.

Part of him admired Jim, if just for his sheer tireless determination and hunger for more action. He'd been a worthy opponent, just as Sherlock had been for Jim - his famous aloof, arrogant, probing demeanor inevitably meant almost everyone longed to know what made Sherlock tick. Yet despite this, and his firm resolution to reclaim his name, revenge actually felt almost alien as a concept to Sherlock.

 

In all honesty, Sherlock wondered what it would feel like to try and pretend it wasn't real. The chillingly effortless stripping of his brilliant reputation. The complete defaming and dragging of his name through the filth. And when the final moments did arrive, a blur of tears and fast, effortful planning, it was worse than Sherlock had dared to imagine. Yes, he'd prepared for it; he wouldn't be here, alive, if he hadn't.

But the actual act of betrayal, to make John watch him throwing himself down with his name, to say goodbye to him, was utterly heartbreaking. Running a hand through his raven curls, he turned away from his reflection, his brow furrowed hard in a huge effort to not well up.

 

The open air platform was colder than Sherlock had thought. Pulling his coat tighter, he strode right to the edge of it, to wait quietly for the final train. This end of the platform was dark and completely empty - more of a chance that the carriage at the end would be empty as well. Exhaling slowly, his breath made pale dragons in the cold air, and, gazing into the night, it finally began to sink in.

 _John must still be having nightmares._ Sherlock knew it instinctively, that is a mortifying thing to make a man do. Stand over the blood-smeared body of his best friend, looking into pale blue eyes completely devoid of life. To accept this tragedy, and then try to convince the rest of the world to do the same. He could never ask John to imagine destroying what they had. Their precious friendship and partnership.

And possibly the very worst thing about it, was that, deep down, Sherlock knew John would never believe it. Not for a single second.

He certainly didn't believe it at the cemetery. Making himself watch John and Mrs Hudson visit his grave felt like self-punishment, listening to them reminisce tearfully, to John cling hard to his soldier's instinct, while begging Sherlock to perform "one last miracle", to not be dead. To stop being dead.

_I am, though. I'm sorry, John, but I am, and I'll have to be for a while._

And then there was going back to 221B; maybe John would move out for a while. He probably wouldn't be able to stay in the flat, not when it was still as it was. Still full of all of Sherlock's.... stuff. Full of memories and tortures to his dear friend - he was never fond of Sherlock's penchant for untidiness anyway. But now it would be so much worse.

Sherlock could picture John horribly easily, lonely and inconsolable. The two of them needed one another, to hold themselves together, and to keep each other functioning well. They certainly were very much alone before they'd met. And once they were sharing a flat and a life full of patrolling round London solving crimes, they were amazed at how excellently they fit together. How they complemented one another, two halves of a whole being called a partnership. How alone they really were without each other.

And now, it had been pulled right apart.

 

Despite being used to making do with his own company and nothing else, Sherlock hated this loneliness, and found himself staring at the ground, hoping John might, somehow, get back on his feet. A single tear escaped from the corner of his eye, just as the approaching train came rushing into the station, the breeze it created chilling Sherlock's face.

Keeping his face blank, he wiped the tear off his cheek, before turning up his collar and climbing into the end carriage, which, thankfully, was empty, to disappear off into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from Stay by Shakespeare's Sister. It's an epic song, and it's lyrics really brought this alive and hammered it home.
> 
>  
> 
> Of course, it's not mine, neither is Sherlock.


End file.
